


If Things Were Different

by iwoulddieforginnyweasley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Depressing, Everyone Gets A Hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, Everyone Thank MsKingBean89, Luna and Lily are friends, Marauders, Neville is Happy, Not A Fix-It, Professor Remus Lupin, Rip Peter, Sirius can't sleep, What-If, harry is happy, minor Wolfstar, minor fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:01:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29877426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwoulddieforginnyweasley/pseuds/iwoulddieforginnyweasley
Summary: If James and Lily Potter had made Sirius Black their secret keeper, then they wouldn’t have died that windy Halloween night.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Kudos: 17





	If Things Were Different

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really proud of this, but I also did write this whole thing at 3am so we'll see how good I think this is in the morning. Also, if you're reading this, I hope you have a great day. <3

If James and Lily Potter had made Sirius Black their secret keeper, then they wouldn’t have died that windy Halloween night. They would’ve returned home from taking Harry out to collect candy from the neighbors and tucked him away in his crib. They’d walk down their creaking old stairs, avoiding the one step that James always joked was practically sawdust, and settle down on their worn sofa. They might turn on their Muggle television, the one Lily made them get them when they bought their first apartment after school. James would turn on a sitcom, something lighthearted. They’d let the television play into the night until their eyes were heavy and their skin glowing grey in the darkness. Then, Lily would make her way upstairs, checking in on her peacefully sleeping child, and begin to brush her teeth in their bathroom. She still would find comfort in those little things, the routines that everyone seemed to follow, no matter who they were. Even Death Eaters must brush their teeth, she always would think to herself. James would be turning off their porch light in the living room, shutting their blinds tightly, pacing the hallway for a moment. He would’ve found himself pacing that hallway more than usual, his heart growing paranoid with the advancements of the war. He’d clutch his wand, his nails digging into his palm, knuckles white. He would find his breathing getting faster and faster, his heartbeat pounding. And then the water would’ve turned on upstairs, Lily finishing up her teeth brushing ritual, and James would’ve made his way back to their little house in Godric’s Hollow. And then, he would wipe his sweaty palms on his jeans and head up the stairs, skipping the unfortunate step of course. He might peek inside Harry’s room, and smile faintly at his son. And then he would join Lily in their bed, and pull her closer to him than usual as if he was holding onto a porcelain lifeboat, something so tender but so necessary for every breath he took. And then they’d go to sleep, hearts beating, chests moving up and down as they dreamt of better days. 

If Sirius Black was made the Secret Keeper, then he wouldn’t meet Peter Pettigrew that fateful night. Sirius Black would’ve been sleeping through the night in his London flat, which would’ve been a rare occurrence in those days. He would’ve woken up the next morning in his bed, and the next night, and the next night the very same. Months later, he would be sleeping through the nights more and more. Remus would’ve pointed it out, that November, as they ate scrambled eggs for breakfast. At the mention of the new phenomena, Sirius would lower his fork, staring off into nothing for a moment. He would have not slept regularly since, since well, never. He would’ve thought back to those cold silent nights in Grimmauld place, where his nerves kept him awake until dawn. He would’ve remembered how often Regulus came into his room when Walburga had been particularly awful. He would’ve remembered all of the terrible things that had to have happened to let him sit at that breakfast table, next to the man he loved. He would’ve tried to brush past these thoughts, in his mind, romanticize the pain into something beautiful. It wouldn’t have worked. He wouldn’t sleep through the night that evening, Remus holding him tight in the moonlight. They always would’ve slept in the moonlight, their windows open, blowing wind inside their gusty home. And Sirius Black would have a hard time drowning the memories that winter, trying to sink them under the water just as his brother did two years before, unbeknownst to him. But the nightmares and insomnia would fade in the weeks to come. There were still bad days of course, but they would simply be bad days. Sirius would’ve had a lot of bad days, what did a few more matter?  


If Peter Pettigrew didn’t meet Sirius Black on October 31st, he would’ve been sitting next to Bellatrix Lestrange at Voldemort’s dinner table. Peter would have never gotten over the sick novelty of watching Voldemort eat. He’d always find it strange that his so-called-Lord could still be a man, despite the shine of his crown. He would’ve known that crowns could still rust, that monsters could be men, and that evil still enjoyed homemade mashed potatoes, but it would’ve never failed to stun him. He would’ve picked up his fork with a shaking hand, as Voldemort rambled about a prophecy. Peter wouldn't have been listening very closely, he’d nearly failed Divination and it felt all too reminiscent of his school days, ones he would’ve been desperately trying to forget. And when Voldemort would’ve turned to him and asked who the Potter’s Secret Keeper was, he might not have been able to push back his golden age fast enough. The memories of those years spent in Gryffindor tower would come flooding back, Remus’s face after a full moon, Sirius’s grin in dark closets hiding from McGonagall, James’s earnest glow when Lily caught his gaze. And maybe he would’ve pretended he didn’t hear the question, it was a plausible excuse, after all, another half-truth. Voldemort would’ve glowered, Peter was never a very good liar. The monster-man would’ve pushed further, saying that Peter would’ve surely known, he was close with James. Peter might’ve looked down at his plate, his mashed potatoes drenched in just a bit too much gravy, he didn’t know how fast it would come out of the pitcher. And he would lie and say he didn’t know. He knew they’d catch on eventually, but maybe there would be time for the Order to figure out that the Dark Lord was onto them. He would’ve been a coward, and known it, but at least he wasn’t a coward that killed his best friend. And Peter would’ve been killed that December, in a fit of Bellatrix’s rage.  


If Bellatrix Lestrange was at Voldemort’s dinner table that night, she wouldn’t have brutally tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom just two months later. She would’ve laughed at the pathetic monstrosity that was Peter Pettrigew’s lie, and later that night told Voldemort that Peter was a disgrace. She would’ve hurt more people, in that next month, sharpening her reputation like a blade, developing a signature that she signed on each corpse. It would’ve been that pained look in their eyes as they stared up into the pearly gates, Crucio written on their lips. When that December came, England was swept with bitter cold, and she would’ve been too far gone, just as she had been for nearly 20 years. Peter would’ve been sitting next to her just as he had been two months prior, weaving an intricate thinly veiled lie on all of the reasons why he hadn’t been able to find out who the Potter’s true Secret Keeper was. And Voldemort would’ve looked at her, and her face would’ve nearly split in two with untamed glee. She’d place her crooked wand at the base of his throat, and kill the man in his seat. Peter’s head would’ve dropped onto the mahogany table and blood would soak into Narcissa’s new silk napkins. And that would’ve been a perfect kill for her, the bastard best friend of the blood traitors and her filthy cousin. And so she wouldn’t have considered turning the minds of Alice and Frank inside out and back again until all they knew were gum wrappers and distant giggles into the distance.  


If Frank and Alice Longbottom weren’t tortured that January, they would’ve watched their son learn how to speak. His first word would’ve been “mama” instead of “grammy” and he would never know the sharp slap of his family’s words on his skin. When Neville turned eight and still was a timid little boy, Alice would’ve grown worried. And that Christmas, when his Uncle Algie hung him out of a window to “force some magic into him”, and proceeded to drop him, Alice would’ve picked her son off the ground and didn’t speak to her brother for many years. Frank would’ve told Neville how smart he was, and how kind and brave and bold he would grow to be, and Neville would’ve believed him. The only time they would’ve stepped foot into St. Mungo’s would have been when Frank broke his foot trying to teach his ten-year-old son how to ride a broomstick before they sent him off to Hogwarts. And when their son boarded the train for his first year, they would’ve waved to Lily and James on the platform.  


If Neville’s parents had taught him how to speak, he would’ve still met Hermione on the Hogwarts express. He would’ve said hi to Harry, who had come across a redhead with dirt on his nose, but still, he’d make his way to the back of the train, wanting to finish reading “Mathilda's Beginners Guide to Flora and Fauna” before they reached school. He’d set his toad, Trevor, down next to him, who would’ve given him an irritated croak before settling down on his folded robes. A bushy-haired girl holding a large trunk and a book even bigger than his would’ve slid the carriage door open and stated that, if he would allow it, she could sit there because he had space for her. Neville would have nodded, and then shortly yelped, as his toad jumped out of the open door. He would’ve been sorted into Gryffindor's house that same day, finally having proof that he was the kind and brave and bold child his mother and father raised him to be.  


If Hermione Granger would’ve met the Neville on the train that spoke with unsteady confidence, she would’ve known she needed to find someone new to befriend, someone who needed her help. She would’ve gotten sorted into Gryffindor and looked around the table at the students around her, remembering the boy with dirt on his nose from the train. He’d still love to eat and be chattering away with an unremarkable green-eyed boy at the table. The green-eyed boy would’ve seen her staring at them, and asked if she wanted to join them that evening in the Gryffindor common room. She would’ve insisted that they had to be in their rooms by 8:00, that they couldn’t break curfew on their very first day, but both boys would insist that they had something to show her. So, she would’ve crept out of her room, prized wand in hand, and met the boys in the common room. The green-eyed boy would introduce himself as Harry Potter, and the redhead as Ron Weasley, and then unveil a shimmering cloak from behind his back. He would explain what it was, an Invisibility Cloak, gifted to him from his father, worn by Headmaster Albus Dumbledore in May of 1882, when he finally killed Voldemort. (Voldemort would’ve been standing in his bedroom, looking at his greying skin in the mirror. Albus would’ve used the Killing curse.) Harry, Ron, and Hermione would’ve snuck out to the Quidditch pitch, and watched the stars. Hermione would’ve found a home at Hogwarts that very first night, and two best friends to share it with.  


If Ron Weasley had been befriended by a bushy-haired bookworm and a sarcastic bespeckled boy on his first day at Hogwarts, he would’ve known that his little sister had been in love with Harry before she even knew what love was. Ron would’ve grown up on sunshine and Quidditch games and pranks in the dead of night. He would’ve still stumbled across the Mirror of Erised that first year, but instead, he’d have seen himself surrounded by family and friends and a certain rule-following friend of his would-be standing a bit closer to him than Harry was, he’d notice. He would’ve learned how to prank from Hogwarts legends, James, Sirius, and Remus. He would’ve split his summers in between the busy Burrow and the loud Potter home, which was filled with stray children and friends of his best friend’s parents. He would’ve stayed up late to listen to Marlene McKinnon tell him all about her career as a Chaser on the Gryffindor quidditch team. He would’ve not listened when his mother told him he wasn’t as smart as Percy or as popular as Charlie, because he knew that it didn’t matter who he was in comparison, just who he was at his core. Ron Weasley would’ve asked Hermione Granger to the Yule Ball his fourth year, shaking hands held behind his back, ones that stilled when a grin broke across her face as she said yes. And he would’ve grown up to be the same loyal, true, honest boy that he always had been, he just knew what he could one day become a little sooner.  


If Ginny Weasley would’ve been in love with Harry Potter for as long as she could remember, not much would change actually, she had always known exactly what she was capable of, and yet she’d still befriend Luna Lovegood during her second year. She would’ve gone to the Potter’s house for Christmas that year, it was the first time Molly could bear to let her and Ron go, even just for a few days. She’d share a room with Luna, who she sat behind in Potions. Their longtime professor Remus Lupin would’ve invited the strange girl to their Christmas festivities that year, not wanting her to spend Christmas alone. Ginny would’ve ignored her ramblings about Nargles for much of the first day, but that night they sat in Ginny’s bed and reminisced on the mysteries of their strange little worlds. They’d be inseparable after that, Ginny hexing anyone who called her friend “Loony”, and Luna would give Ginny teacup readings in the back of Divination. Luna would claim that Harry would ask out Ginny their sixth year. Ginny shrugged it off and filled her days with Quidditch practices and schemes. But, when she sat behind the closed curtains of her bed, she always hoped there might be some truth in her friend’s words. And Luna, as always, was right.  


If Luna Lovegood had become best friends with Ginny second year, she would’ve found a mother in Lily Potter. She would become sharper than all of her classmates, not letting it show until they questioned her beliefs. Then, she’d pull out a sketchbook that she kept tucked under her arm, and show them her carefully painted creatures, labeled with notes and studies that she conducted with her father. One day, Professor Lupin might notice her sketchbook, and kindly ask if he could read her findings. She would hand it over, trusting the look in the man’s tired eyes, and he’d invite her for tea the next day. When she would arrive at the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, she’d find Harry Potter’s mother sitting at a table next to her favorite professor. They’d spent the previous Christmas together, but Lily was busy with teaching Harry how to properly Transfigure, and they would have only briefly spoken. But, there Lily was, with bright eyes and an open mind, ready to discuss Luna’s discoveries over tea. And it was then that Luna knew two things: that one day the world would understand the world inside her head, and that suddenly she knew what the lack of a mother truly meant.  


If Lily Potter had taken Luna under her wing, she would have known she was right in convincing Remus to become a teacher. She would have grown older than 21, raising her son and his friends along with him. She would’ve traveled to France for her birthday, meeting Mary MacDonald and Marlene McKinnon in Paris. They’d get drunk on the culture and expensive wine, and find themselves at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Then, they’d look down at the city, all of the bright lights and quiet darkness in between them, and they’d cry. Because they never thought they’d live that long; long enough to be together again, happy. It would have been a miracle that they survived, made it out with their minds and their hearts that had grown strong with time. And they stumbled back to their hotel that night, and all would sleep on the carpeted floor, wrapped up in blankets and robes. Lily woke up with a hangover and homesickness, but still would smile out at her reflection in the mirror. She hadn’t wondered if they’d live through the night in years.  


If Lily had convinced Remus Lupin to become a teacher in 1991, he wouldn’t have had to fill the hole that his best friend would have left in Harry’s life. He would have argued that he wasn’t sensible enough for teaching, but Lily made a fair point that it would be a way to help people. And so he’d teach at Hogwarts for the next ten years, spending his days in classrooms, helping students in just as tough of situations as him, and the nights in his old flat with Sirius. Remus would’ve married Sirius in 1985, and they might have considered buying a house, but there were too many memories burned into the rickety planks of their flat’s floors. Remus would love his job, despite how much he refused to admit it. When Harry would come to him in the sixth year, asking how on earth he could begin to ask out Ginny Weasley, Remus would laugh until his stomach ached, and then tell his godson that he was his father’s son. He wouldn’t grow old so fast, wouldn’t watch his husband go to prison and back, and, in 1993, would help pass a law that would help werewolves get access to doctors, education, and jobs. And he would be so proud of what he’d done, in what he once thought was a waste of a life, so proud of everything he’d grown up to be.  


If James Potter filled the father-shaped hole in Harry’s heart, his son wouldn’t grow up to die. James would teach Harry how to ride a broom properly, and go to every Quidditch game with his face painted red and gold. He’d spend the school years with Lily in the woods, exploring the world that was all theirs. He’d love Harry’s friends as if they were his own, playing chess with Ron and investing large sums of money in S.P.E.W. James would stop riding his broom when he said his back hurt too much, and Lily would shove him and tease her “old git of a husband”. He’d give Harry his cloak on his eleventh birthday, his father’s watch on his seventeenth, and every bit of his heart the day he was born. He’d never pace the halls of his house again, but he still kept his wand under his pillow, old habits making a fool out of him. He would have a lot of habits, it was just his nature. James might tap his fingers on the table when he got nervous or call Remus every once in a while to make sure Harry was doing okay. After so many years of living, he’d become a collection of habits and memories and stories that never had to be told to his son by someone else.  
If Harry Potter never grew up to die, he’d be all the best parts of himself wrapped up into a skinny boy with messy black hair and a remarkably empty forehead. He’d snap back at teachers when they were unfair, and sneak out to watch the stars. Harry would’ve taught his friends how to cast a Patronus on the lawns of Hogwarts, instead of hiding in the depths of the school. He’d bring McGonagall Christmas presents and tell Ron that there was no way Hermione didn’t like him back. He’d be a brilliant Quidditch player and a furious friend and a charming boyfriend to the girl he adored. Harry would grow up standing two inches taller, the weight of the world far away from his shoulders. He’d just be a boy who lived, instead, making himself into the kind of remarkable that he wanted to be. And Harry would be happy. 

“There’s no what-ifs,” Harry scolded to himself, knowing there was no one around to hear him. The forest was dark that night, as he continued the march to his death. The Resurrection Stone was behind him now, lost in the leaves and earth. And as he walked closer, knowing everything that could have been, his footsteps slowed, his heavy heart growing unbearable. Then, the darkness faded to soft blue lights from a flickering flame and he stood before the bearer of his bad luck with open arms.  
“Harry Potter," Voldemort said very softly. His voice might have been part of the spitting fire. "The Boy Who Lived."  
Harry gasped.  
His aching heart stopped.  
And he was gone.


End file.
